bloom
by scribblingnellie
Summary: Why are there flowers on Molly Hooper's desk? Who would give her flowers? Did she have a secret admirer? Why? Just a little sweet romantic fluff - sometimes it's just what I need! Part of my series of stories based on creative daily prompts for May. Many thanks for reading. PS. there is another character in the story, and it'll probably be obvious who it is but.. well, read on!


**For the next creative prompt - bloom - it's back to a little romantic fluff. Sometimes I just feel the need for some sweet romance! It may be obvious who Molly's secret admirer is as you read, but it's not to her! and I just couldn't resist the awkwardness. Hope you enjoy reading.**

* * *

They were just... there. On her desk.

Ten minutes spent hunting down more tissue sample forms in the store cupboard (finally located them, filed in the wrong space) and she came back to find them sitting right on top of the Gilbert report.

Why?

Who'd leave them there, on her desk? In the middle of the day? Sneaking them in while she was out of her office.

Did she have a secret admirer?

Seriously? Shaking her head, she berated herself at the thought. You? Molly Hooper, the quiet pathologist, who never did anything extraordinary? Ok, yes, she'd helped a genius fake his suicide and kept it quiet for two years but then she would've done anything for her closest, dearest friends to keep them safe.

But... flowers for her?

The small bunch of yellow tulips stared back. She eyed them cautiously, as if they might suddenly leap out at her.

Moving over to her desk, Molly placed the forms to one side. Her hand reached out towards the blooms, her fingertips gently brushing across the petals, feeling their cool smoothness.

A note? Was there a note, or a card? Not that she could see. Only the tulips, bound with a large white satin ribbon, lying across one of her reports.

They were beautiful - simple and elegant, just how she liked her flowers.

Someone had put them there for her to find. Her heart felt a little light. Someone was giving her flowers.

But who?

If she thought about it, there may have been one or two people who possibly, maybe might have left them. Possibly. Maybe.

But was it a friendly gesture or a romantic one? Romantic? Seriously, who did she know that would do that? She could count on one hand the number of men that she had anything meaningful to do with. And no, a female friend would have left a note, or given them to her in person.

It wouldn't have been Sherlock. While the two years away and his reunion with John had changed him, giving flowers really wasn't his thing. His gestures usually went along the lines of a set of slides of some unusual biological sample. Or sometimes a cup of coffee now and then when she was busy.

Greg? They were good friends. He'd said before how grateful he was for her sitting and listening and talking late into the night with him as he went through his divorce. Molly'd been happy to do it, she liked his company. But again, Greg's gestures were boxes of chocolates, and proper coffee when he popped by the morgue, as a thank you but not flowers.

It couldn't have been Tom. Could it? Maybe he was apologising? But it wasn't his usual style, he'd always gone for the fancy and exotic flowers. If he was trying to say sorry and get back into her life then it would have been with something more outlandish. Not that she'd take him back. So not Tom.

And then really the only other man it might have possibly been was the friend of Mary's, the one who'd asked her to dance at the wedding and said how pretty she looked. David? She hadn't told him where she worked, and she was sure he wouldn't have been able to get that information out of anyone else.

Molly shook her head. So not Sherlock, not Greg, not Tom, not David...

'Why not me?'

The rough, deep voice startled her. That warm, familiar friendly voice. And then Molly realised that she'd run off the list of names out loud. Mortifying. She couldn't look up. Had it been him? Her hand reached for the tulips, touching the ribbon tied around them. Had he given her flowers? Why?

'Why would you give me flowers?'

'Why would any man give a wonderful woman flowers?'

Wonderful? She lifted her eyes, and met his handsome brown ones as they looked over at her from the doorway. Molly felt pulled into them. How had she not noticed before?

'Thank you... they're beautiful.'

Stepping into her office, he hovered at the side of her desk. 'I saw them and thought of you. Whenever I see yellow now, I can't help thinking of you and how lovely you are and... sorry.'

Ducking her head, Molly knew the blush was creeping across her cheeks. 'It's ok. I just never expected...'

'Neither did I, to be honest.' His fingers traced along the edge of her desk, near her but holding back. 'It sort of hit me one day, when you told me about ...about you and Tom. I thought about saying something at the wedding, but well, obviously not the best time or place. And then you two split up and Sherlock was shot, and I sort of bottled it...'

'Why?' She kept her eyes on the flowers, on the report underneath.

Molly heard him breathe in, pausing, gathering his thoughts. 'You're smart, beautiful, well out of my league and...'

'And what?'

'Well, me and relationships don't go so well together.'

Molly gave a small soft laugh. 'Then that makes two of us.'

His hand reached towards hers, hesitating before gently letting his fingers rest on hers. 'Molly, would you like to have dinner with me? I mean if you want to. We can just see how it goes, maybe?'

And something tugged at her heart, a thought planted itself in her mind. Yes, she would like to have dinner with the handsome policeman standing beside her desk. Letting her fingers entwine with his, feeling their roughness and strength, Molly looked back up into his eyes.

'Greg, I'd love to.' 

* * *

**In choosing a colour for the flowers it had to be yellow; Molly is quite memorable in that yellow dress. And in the language of flowers, yellow tulips mean hopelessly in love, apparently! So, the perfect choice. Many thanks for reading.**


End file.
